MY LITTLE PIG HUMPY.
A deep, broad, lazy-flowing river! It is one of the loveliest things in nature. When I was a little boy I lived near one, and among my very pleasantest memories are those of the days when I fished, and swam, and dived in its clear deeps, or sailed my tiny boats and played "dick, duck, drake" over its sleepy surface.
About half-way up the hill-slope which made the western bank of this river, stood our house. It was a large, dark old building—somewhat gloomy-looking on the outside, may-be, to a stranger; but inside, even in the most out-of-the-way corners of those great rooms, there was no gloom—the sunshine of peace and love made light everywhere. The dear old home!
Among my father's servants there was an old negro, who, as occasion required, was, by turns, coachman, gardener, carpenter, and house-servant. His name was Horace; he had no other name, I believe—at least, I never knew of any. Horace was one of the blackest negroes I ever saw, and as large-hearted as he was black. He was very fond of children, and very good-natured usually, though not always, as you will see, by-and-by.
Horace could make the nicest little wagons and sleds, and the clearest, sweetest-toned willow whistles in the world, I used to think. He could tell to a day, almost, and without trying them, when the May-duke cherries had reached their luscious prime; he could remember, from year to year, exactly in which row, and how far from the end, the early-ripe apple tree stood; he knew too, the very moment, I thought, when the frost had opened the chestnut burrs and ripened the persimmons, so that they would not pucker up our mouths, as they did sometimes, when we were so foolish as to think we knew better than he; he could pick out the luckiest places for our rabbit-traps, and could always find worms for bait, no matter how dry the weather, when we wanted to go a-fishing. In short, Horace knew everything, it seemed to me then.
At the time of which I write, I was eight years old, the younger of two brothers, and Horace's favorite. He used to say that my rosy, chubby face, black, saucy eyes, and laughing, rollicking, topsy-turvy ways, were "better comp'ny" for him than the more thoughtful, quiet, sober bearing of my brother Walter.
Walter went to school in the village, which was about a mile from our house, over the hill; but I said my little lessons to my mother, at home, an hour every morning and afternoon.
When it was not lesson-time, Horace and I were nearly always together; no matter what he might be at work on, he could usually contrive to find something to please me and keep me near him.
One morning, while I was saying my lesson, my father had given Horace a severe scolding for his forgetfulness, which was the only fault he had, I believe, but it was a most grievous one, and often led to serious trouble. After I had finished my lesson, without knowing anything about the scolding he had had, I went out into the garden, where Horace was working, and asked him to fasten a wheel on my little wagon, and help me to gear up my dog, Branch, to it.
"No! go 'long—I'se busy!" said he, without looking at me, and puffing out his great lips. Then he added, in a muttering way, to himself, "Nebber did see sich a bother as dese yer boys is!"
I was rather a passionate boy, and this roused me at once. I said something saucy back to him; then he said something else; then I said something in return, ending by calling him "an old nigger," and went back to the house.
Nothing could have offended Horace more than that "old nigger," which had slipped off my tongue in the heat of my passion, and for which I was heartily sorry a moment after—for, like a great many other negroes I have known, although he frequently called himself so, he would suffer no one else to.
All day long he did not speak to me, nor look at me, though I made a pretence of having several errands to the garden and went right by him—and at night I went to bed quite unhappy about it.
The next morning, I moped about the house, and tried to amuse myself with my humming-top, but it would not spin to suit me, and I threw it aside pettishly and went down to the kitchen, to ask old Wangie, the cook, to tell me a story, while she washed the breakfast things.
I found Wangie and Horace, with the other servants, still at their breakfast; so, without saying anything, I went up to the window and began to blow my breath against the glass, and make figures on it with my fingers. Once I turned my head, and found Horace looking at me with an earnest, wistful look that seemed to say, "I am ready to make up;" but I was proud, and could not bring myself to say anything—though a little soundless voice down in my heart kept urging me to, and though I knew I had been most in fault—until just as Horace was getting up from the table, when the little voice overcame my pride, and, tilting one of the loose flag-stones of the floor up and down with my foot, I said, without looking at him,
"Horace, I ain't mad at you, if you ain't mad at me." When I had got thus far I felt so much better that I looked up frankly into his face, and added, "And I am sorry I called you what I did."
"Lor' bress de chile!" said he; "Ise sorry too. I know'd de boy couldn't stay mad at ole Horace long, and ole Horace couldn't at him, sartin. But ye see, Mass' L——, when you com'd to me I was busy; and den Mass' B—— had jis been talking sharp to de ole nigger, 'cause he forgit to take de gray pony to be shod. I tells ye what, Mass' L——, it make ole Horace feel 'siderably bunkshus[A] for a leetle bit; but Missus says we must forgib and forgit. De Lor' knows I kin do de forgittin' part so well, 'tain't no use to say nothin' 'bout t'other. De ole nigger all right now, though, and he got de purtiest sight to show de boy he ebber see in all he born days."
[A] This is one of Horace's own words, and I never heard any translation of it.
With that he picked up his hat, took me by the hand, and off we started, the best of friends again.
How well I remember that day! It was in the middle of May, and the sunshine was so warm and bright, the sky so clear and blue, and the grass, as we passed through the orchard, looked so beautiful, with here and there a snowy drift of apple-blossoms, into whose honeyed hearts the little pilfering bees were diving—and the birds sang so joyously, and such fragrant prophecies of the golden summer-time came floating to us upon every breath of the wind, that I said to Horace, I thought it must be a Sunday that had slipped out of Heaven, by mistake.
"Dun'no, Mass' L——," said he; "but I 'spec dey don't make no mistakes up dar."
During this we were crossing the orchard toward a little closely-fenced lot, about an eighth of a mile from the house, in which were the sheep and pig-pens.
I was not yet perfectly well assured of Horace's good humor, and so, although I was terribly curious to know, I had not dared to ask him where we were going, or what we were going to see.
Horace carried a pail of milk, which he had picked up as we passed the milk-house, in one hand, while I had hold of the other with both of mine, and was jumping and swinging along, when, just after we had entered the enclosure and were passing one of the large pig-pens, he set down the pail, and taking me at one of my jumps, with a slight lift of his brawny arm, set me up on the edge of the pen, exclaiming—
"Look dar now, boy! Wasn't ole Horace right—aint dey de purtiest little tings y'ebber did see?"
Right down under me lay the old sow, and rollicking and rooting, and butting and squealing around her were eight of the prettiest, darlingest, cutest little pigs that ever saw the sunshine.
One little fellow, black all over, was lying by himself, with his head lifted up a little, so that he could see me. This one did not seem so glad and spry, and fat and saucy as the others, and there was something in his look that brought a warm feeling to my heart, and made me pity him.
"Well, Mass' L——, which one's ye gwine for to choose for your'n?" said Horace, after I had sat there some minutes.
I looked at them all, except the little black one, again, and finally decided upon a pert, head-over-heels sort of a fellow, that was racing up and down the pen as furiously as though he had had a coal of fire fast to his tail, and was trying to run away from it. Every once in a while he would stop short, as if he had forgotten something, and suddenly remembered it—then he would look up at me in the most quizzical way imaginable, with his little impudent eyes, give a snort, a quick jerk of the head, and away again. He was as white as snow all over, except his tail and one ear, which were black. He seemed to understand that I was going to make a choice, and to be determined that I should choose him; and this frolicking and frisking were his ways of "showing his paces," I suppose; or else his funny little black tail was twisted up so tightly that he couldn't keep still.
Just as I was turning around to say to Horace that I chose that one, something, I did not know what, made me look down at the little black ugly one again. He was still looking up at me, with a sick, sad, hopeless, yet patient look, and at once it seemed to me that I heard that little voice again—heard it with the ears of my heart, as it were—"Choose him!"
I turned around to Horace, who seemed to be getting impatient at my taking so long to choose, and said very quietly, and somewhat sadly, perhaps, for I remember that my voice and the way I spoke seemed to astonish him as much as my choice—"I'd like to have that one for mine, Horace."
"What! Mass' L——! y'ain't gwine for to take dat ar little pigininny! Why he ain't o' no 'count, no how!—an' he look sick too—mebby he die. Let ole Horry choose for ye. I'd take de little feller wid de black tail and ear,"—pointing to the one I had fixed upon at first—"he's as peert as a jack-knife; and den, white's a mighty sight purtier color dan black—dat is, for pigs," added he, catching himself, for one of Horace's hobbies was the notion that black was "de best color in de world for folks."
But all Horace said about the little pig looking sick, and that "mebby he die," only made the little voice beg the more earnestly—"Take him! take him!" and I said to it, softly—"I will," and to Horace, aloud—
"Please let me take the little black one, Horace. I want to nurse him and make him well, like the others."
Horace looked a little displeased at what he thought was wilfulness in me, but said nothing more. He then took up the pail and poured the milk into the trough—my father being of the opinion that it was never too early to begin to feed pigs. At once the little fellows—all save mine, who lay still and alone, only turning his strangely sad eyes from me to the trough—made a furious rush towards it, crowding, squealing, and pushing like—so many little pigs as they were, and like nothing else in the world. Some plunged their heads into the milk, clear up to their eyes, which fairly twinkled and snapped with roguery, and one—the one with the black tail and ear, scrambled into the trough bodily, just as though he wanted to get more than the others, and thought he could absorb it with his legs and body, as well as take it in at his mouth; then, not satisfied with this, he went marching up and down the trough, treading on the snouts of his fellows, until they got angry, and rooted him out entirely.
I wanted to take mine up to the house and give him some warm milk and nurse him, but I saw that Horace was not much pleased with him, and I was afraid of renewing our quarrel by proposing it then.
More than a week passed, with my going down twice every day with Horace, to feed the funny, noisy little rascals, and staying there more than an hour sometimes, to watch them eat, and frolic about the pen. After the first day, I made so bold as to ask Horace to let me take some warm milk in a little old pan, for mine. He consented, and would even get over into the pen and hand him out to me, while I put him down on the ground, in the sunshine, and scratched his back and head while he ate, until he grew to know me, and Horace grew to like him and to be as anxious about him and as tender toward him as I was.
As I said, more than a week passed in this way, when, one morning, Horace said he should let them take a little run outside. So he propped up the sliding door with a stick, and drove the old sow out, while the little pigs came tumbling after. I stayed a long time, watching them root and frisk about—mine always lagging behind the others and never playing any—till it came dinner-time, and I went up to the house. After dinner I went with Tom (one of our hired hands), over to the mill, and did not get back till tea time. Just as I was getting into my place at table, I heard a squeal from the kitchen, and with the thought of my pig in my mind, rushed down to see what was the matter.
Horace had just come in and was standing by the fire, with Wangie and Tom, looking at my poor little pig, who lay on an old bag in his arms, dead—as I thought, till Horace, in laying him down on a chair, jarred him a little, and made him squeal again.
He had fallen down into an old dry cistern there was in the sheep-yard, and broken "he right hand foreleg," as Horace said.
"Betta kill um," said Tom—"he not werry fat, but'll do to roast for de kitchen."—Tom and I had never been very good friends, and you may be sure that this speech did not help to make us so.
"Go 'way, boy!" said Horace, whose heart was always as gentle as a girl's; "he Mass' L—— 's pig, and he gwine for to be doctored."
Horace's idea struck me, and without thinking, without my hat—the tears streaming down my face, and nearly dark as it was, I took piggy in my arms and started off toward the village, to find my uncle, who was a physician.
Just as I got to the gate at the end of the lane, I met him riding over to take tea with us.
"What's the matter—what have you got there, and where are you going at this time of the day?" asked he, somewhat startled by my singular appearance.
"Oh, uncle!" said I, "I'm so glad you've come.—Why it's my little pig, and he fell down the cistern and broke his leg, and I was just coming for you to mend it."
"You had better let me open his carotid," said he.
"Will that make him well?" asked I.
"Yes," said he, "it'll take all his pain away, and he won't know his leg's broken two minutes after I do it."
"Oh, I'm so glad you can do that!" said I.
At this, my uncle laughed heartily, for he had been making fun of me all the time—the carotid being one of the most important arteries of the body. It supplies the brain with blood, and if he had opened it, poor piggy would have bled to death in a minute; that's what my uncle meant by saying it would take away all his pain.
In spite of his joking, my uncle was a very kind-hearted man, and after he had finished laughing at my simplicity and ignorance, he got off his horse and put the bridle over his arm, saying—"Your pig's too heavy for you; besides, you should carry him with his legs up,—it will lessen the flow of blood to the wounded one, and so save him a good deal of pain,—let me take him."
He seized hold of the little fellow, who had lain perfectly quiet since I had taken him, except now and then a low, piteous moaning, which always started my tears afresh; but the instant my uncle touched him, he began to squeal terribly, and struggle, till uncle said that if I could carry him, may be I had better, for the struggling would irritate the broken leg. So he let go of him, and he was quiet again in a moment, except that plaintive moaning which seemed almost like human sobbing.
About half-way up the lane, we met Horace, whom my mother had sent out to see what had become of me. My uncle told him to get some little thin pieces of hickory, and showed him how to make some splints. He then told him to take little piggy, thinking I would not be strong enough to prevent his struggling; but he squealed and took on so in Horace's hands that I insisted on holding him, and to the surprise of all, he only squealed once during the whole operation. There seemed to be a magnetism in my affection which soothed and lessened his suffering; just as you may remember when you were sick, if your dear mother or aunt laid her hand on your forehead, or stroked your hair back, or smoothed your pillow, it seemed to quiet your pain, and drive it away almost entirely for the time. I think little pigs can feel this as well as little folks, and my little pet understood that I loved and would let no harm or hurt come to him that I could prevent; and that is why he did not squeal when I held him.
Several weeks passed by before my uncle thought it safe to take the splints from piggy's leg; during which I fed and tended him constantly. During this time also, the doctor discovered that the fall had injured his spine too, which he said would prevent his growing much, and would cause his shoulders to gradually hump up.
Sure enough, it was not long before we noticed that a regular hump had begun to form, just behind his shoulders, which led to his being called Humpy. My father first called him so in sport, and though at first I was very indignant, because it seemed like making light of the poor little fellow's misfortunes; yet the name got fastened on to him, in spite of Horace and me, and finally we fell in with the rest, and called him Humpy too.
In the mean time, by his patience and gentleness through all his long, tedious illness, by his quick appreciation of kindness and bright intelligence, he had made himself the favorite of the whole household—even of my father, who usually declared pigs to be "disgusting." Still I continued to be his special and particular friend; next to me came Horace, and we two gave him his baths in warm soap-suds, two or three times a week, which always pleased him amazingly, and kept him as clean as a baby. He would follow me like a dog, through the garden, all over the house, up and down stairs, pat, pat, pat, and if I did not notice him frequently, he would set up a funny little squeal, and crowd right against my heels. I frequently woke from my afternoon naps that summer, and found him snuggled down by my side. I taught him to stand up on his hind legs, and beg for pears and apples, and to lie down and pretend to be dead, and several other funny tricks. I frequently took him with me when I went to ride. He never could be prevailed upon to lie down, at such times, but would insist upon standing on the floor of the vehicle, where he would pitch and stagger about in a way very funny to see.
All the dogs, and cats and everything and everybody about our establishment, seemed to have a kindly feeling toward Humpy, with the exception of a little bantam hen of mine. She for some reason, possibly because she was rearing her first brood of chickens, took a dislike to him and flew at him every time he came in her neighborhood. One day as Horace and Wangie were sitting at dinner and I was blowing soap-bubbles out of the window, we heard a terrible squealing in the hen-yard, and on rushing out to see what was the matter, found the little bantam perched on Humpy's back, pecking away at his ears, like the little shrew that she was, and he, the little simpleton, was standing stock still, and squealing for dear life. Horace speedily rescued him from his perilous situation, but it was a long time before he could be coaxed into the hen-yard again.
Almost the funniest thing about little Humpy was his manner of sleeping. The day after his leg was broken, Horace had made a snug little low box for him, and filled it with wool for his bed, and though Wangie was very particular about her kitchen, she had become so attached to the little fellow during his sickness, that she suffered the box to remain, and as it drew near winter, she would even place it by the fire of nights. About eight o'clock in the evening, and often earlier, Humpy would scramble into this box, and instead of lying down on his belly or side, as little pigs all the world over do, he would turn over on his back, with his little legs sticking up, and so sleep all the night through. This always amused our visitors greatly; it seemed as though they never would be done laughing at it, and indeed it was extremely funny.
Fire, from first to last, seemed to be a profound and most fascinating mystery to Humpy. Frequently, in the early evening, he would station himself just in front of the great open kitchen fire-place, and stand by the half hour looking straight into the roaring flame. I used to say at such times, that he looked like the picture of Napoleon by his camp-fire, the night before Austerlitz, though nobody else could see the resemblance.
Snow was another thing which he never seemed to quite understand. Our first snow-storm that winter came in the night-time, and in the morning, when Wangie opened the door for him to take his airing, he seemed to be really frightened at first, and she had great difficulty to get him out. But he soon grew to like it, and finally nothing would please him better than to put him out where he could run and frisk and root in it, and he would look so cunning when he came in afterwards, with his eyelashes all filled, and his little black head and snout all stuck over with white patches. The sound of sleigh-bells, too, was evidently a great delight to him, and the sleigh never drove up to the door that he did not rouse up and frolic about till the door was opened, when he would rush out upon the piazza. Sometimes we would take him in the sleigh with us, when he would take his stand in the bottom with his snout resting on the side, and so ride for miles.
But, poor Humpy! his little troubled day of life was almost done.
"Hog-killing time" had come, and great kettles of water were kept constantly over the kitchen fire, to be heated for scalding the animals after they were killed. As Horace and Tom were lifting one of these off, it slipped and tilted over, pouring more than a gallon of the boiling contents right into Humpy's bed, which, owing to the busy tumult of the day, I suppose, had not been moved away.
The poor little fellow was just taking his morning nap.—I will spare you and myself pain, by telling the rest as briefly as possible.
In a few minutes the whole household had collected in the kitchen. Horace had wrapped the little fellow in a blanket, but I saw my father shake his head as he looked at him, and taking Horace aside, whisper something to him, to which the tender-hearted old man answered aloud,—
"No, Mass' B—— don't ax ole Horace to do dat ar, 'cause he couldn't, no how."
Father then called Tom and whispered to him, and afterwards to my mother, who took me softly by the hand and asked me to come with her to the sitting-room, where she explained to me that Humpy was too badly hurt this time to get well, and told me what father had whispered to Tom.
She had hardly finished, when I heard the crack of the pistol in the direction of the barn,—it almost seemed to me that the ball had gone through my heart.
Horace laid my little dead pet in the old box of wool, nailed it up, and we buried him with all the household by, at the foot of the garden, under a sickle pear tree, the fruit of which he had liked best.
And what became of dear old Horace?
After Walter and I went away from home, a great change came over Horace; he grew silent and reserved, and liked to be alone a great deal, and finally, with his savings, he bought a small tract of land, on the top of one of the highest hills in the neighborhood, where he built himself a little house and kept a great many goats. One morning one of his nearest neighbors, on going out, found some ten or fifteen goats at his door, bleating most piteously. Knowing that nobody thereabouts kept goats but Horace, and suspecting that something was wrong, he called one of his men and started over to Horace's house. When they got there, they found Horace lying on his bed, his hands folded peacefully across his breast—dead.